His uncle, a cold man, had been devastated by John's death. Rory had understood Matthew's anguish. No doubt MacNab knew it too. Rory tried to convince himself that MacNab was proposing to help for the benefit of his old friend, but a niggle of doubt persisted. He was, first of all, an astute businessman. He'd be thinking of his own profit as much as he was behaving altruistically.
Rory's suspicions were confirmed with his next words.
'If you married my Susannah, the money would be yours,' he pointed out. 'I'm giving her a handsome settlement, very handsome, and I'd be prepared to take a share in the business too. When I die, maybe even before then, if I retire like Matthew has, we could merge the businesses. Matthew would be willing.'
But I would not, Rory thought, I want to be my own man. He didn't allow his alarm to show. He was trapped now, tied to the business for his uncle's sake. He had to make a success of it and he would do it alone. He amended his thoughts. He would succeed thanks to the idea given him by Catriona. Briefly he wondered what she was doing, who she was now plaguing with her enthusiasms. He shook his head. He needed to concentrate on Silas and his schemes.
'Have you talked to him about this?'
'You know it's always been possible. If John had been alive, he'd have inherited, and then of course I'd have been offering him the same deal. You're Matthew's heir now, and surely you want to please him, lad. He's an old, unhappy man!'
It was unlike MacNab to be sentimental. Rory grew even more suspicious.
'I'm honoured, of course,' he replied, 'but I've no desire to succeed by using your money or Susannah's dowry. I'd prefer to win by my own efforts.'
'Don't be squeamish, lad. Marriage is a business matter. You can't afford to let sentiment get in the way.'
'That is not what I meant.'
'You and my Susannah will rub along famously. She's a good, obedient lass, and the chit's hot for you. You needn't fear she has her heart set on some unsuitable rogue.'
Rory closed his eyes briefly. The pressure was mounting, and if he were not careful, the trap would close on him before he knew what was happening.
'She's been brought up properly too,' Mr MacNab went on, his tone becoming confidential. 'She won't make trouble if you want a few adventures, so long as you're discreet about them,' her father continued. 'No more than her mother did,' he added, chortling at some salacious recollection.
Rory was torn between distaste and amusement. How could the man compromise his only daughter's happiness by openly encouraging a prospective husband to contemplate breaking his marriage vows? But the thought of the rotund MacNab sporting naked in some illicit bed was a vision to cherish.
'Surely you would wish any aspirant to Susannah's hand to have proved his worth?' he asked. 'You want a man for her who can add to her fortune, not, as would seem possible at the moment if I accepted your offer, run through it and make her penniless.'
'I won't allow that,' MacNab said. 'If I put money into the business I'll take a hand in the running of it, and my experience is greater than yours, Rory.'
So that was it. First a helping hand, and then, most likely, total control.
Rory shook his head. 'You don't approve of my plans, you'd stop the block printing, my experiments, if you were in control, wouldn't you?' he persisted when the other did not respond.
'Well, of course I'd listen to what you proposed, but I'd expect you to heed my advice. And I'll tell you now, for free, that this crazy notion of printing poncy patterns on good plain linen won't work. People want good quality, plain fabric.'
They argued for another hour, but Rory was firm in his refusal. He would never, except in the direst extremity, allow MacNab to dictate to him. If he married Susannah he would lose what influence he had with his uncle, and all control over the business. That would be insupportable, and even at the risk of hurting Matthew, possibly losing his unexpected inheritance, rather than submit he'd take his own small fortune and begin again somewhere else
His Uncle Matthew had also been plaguing him to offer for Susannah MacNab and her father's wealth. It had been his constant refrain when Rory visited him, and had been repeated in several letters since. The old man wanted to secure her money for his own business before some other man won her.
It was not that he was averse to marriage, Rory thought, and Susannah was pretty enough, and amiable, and her money would certainly be useful. But he was determined to wed where he chose, if only he could find a woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. It would mean the end of his freedom, the finishing of those pleasant liaisons with a succession of charming, accommodating but bored married ladies who wanted no more than his discreet attentions and gifts. Yet he hesitated. If he could save the business himself he need not change his life for years yet.
Without her father, Susannah might be a suitable wife for him. She was pretty, small and delicate, with brown, slightly auburn hair and big green eyes. Her complexion was pale, and she made no secret of her admiration for him. One day, maybe, he'd offer for her, but only when there was no fear of her father's interference in what he regarded as his business. Perhaps then, or if matters became so desperate that there was no alternative, and that was not going to happen. He would make this new scheme work.
*****
Catriona flinched as Mr William MacNeill patted her hand, and allowed his gaze to drift down to her low decolletage. She wore her best gown of figured ivory damask open at the front to show a pale blue petticoat. It had a modest, bell-shaped hooped skirt. Thank goodness Aunt Joan did not approve of the fashion for excessively wide panniers, so she did not have the problem of manoeuvring them through narrow doorways. Her aunt thought young ladies should be modestly attired, and display only a moderate amount of lace, frills, embroidery or other decoration.
Briefly Catriona allowed her thoughts to wander to the new, hinged panniers, essential now side hoops had become fashionable. What on earth did ladies look like, lifting these up so that they could pass through narrow doorways? Catriona suppressed a sudden giggle.
Her gown was still elaborate, more so than any she'd previously worn. As well as the low, square neckline, trimmed lavishly with fine lace, there was lace on the double cuffs at the ends of her tight-fitting sleeves, and then finely-pleated muslin ruffles, two of them, falling over her elbows.
It had been Uncle Colin who had insisted she wear some of her mother's jewellry. He had given orders that she attend him in his library as soon as she was dressed.
As she entered, he had turned from the small iron-bound chest open on his desk. She recognised it as her mother's strongbox, the one she'd brought from Aberdeen, which contained all her most valuable possessions, and which Uncle Colin had insisted on keeping for them, despite her mother's objections.
'Come here, child,' her uncle had said, unusually amiable. 'I want you to look well this evening, and you are old enough to wear some simple trinkets.'
He pushed aside a bag which chinked. Her mother had brought what money she had left, too. Her uncle opened a smaller bag and drew out a rope of pearls.
'No, I think not. Something less obvious, more suited to a young lady, I think.'
He'd rejected the gold necklace, the rings, some opals, most of them presents her father had brought back from his voyages, and settled at last on a small round locket.
'This will do admirably,' he decided, fiddling with it and trying to find the secret of opening it.
Failing, he almost flung it at Catriona, and she fastened it round her neck, and escaped back to her room. There, she opened the locket, whose secret fastening she had known all her life. It contained small miniature paintings of her father and mother, done soon after their wedding, and she gazed down at the beloved face of her father, blinking back tears. If she could, she'd take the locket to her mother when this evening was over, instead of giving it back into her uncle's keeping. It was hers, after all, and might comfort her.
Catriona suppressed a chuckle as she wondered what Aunt Joan thought of
Mr MacNeill's flamboyant clothing. Though the fashion was for neat, small wigs, his was large, with row upon row of tight curls. It was so heavily powdered he scattered powder-dust around him whenever he moved. That and his flattish, round face made his head look disproportionately huge. His coat, of a particularly violent shade of mustard, was of velvet, and already a perspiration mark showed under the arms. Both the coat and his waistcoat, of puce satin, which bulged alarmingly over his portly stomach, sported so many large silver buttons and a corresponding amount of highly ornate, silver-embroidered frogging, that he dazzled the senses.
His clothes were, he had informed them, the latest fashion from Paris, but Catriona wished they had been made slightly larger so that they did not mould his fleshy figure quite so tightly. The narrow sleeves seemed in danger of splitting asunder when he moved, and after one horrified glance she averted her gaze from his tightly fitting cream-coloured satin breeches, diamond-studded buckles on them and his shoes, and white silk stockings.
Why had Uncle Colin invited him to dine, and insisted that she made up the numbers? Why did he want to impress the man? It would have been bearable if her friend Betsy's brother Dougal had been her partner, and she was holding his arm in the rather formal procession to the dining room. But Mr MacNeill was new to the area, and she was, she supposed, a hostess. Betsy and her family were old friends, usually treated far more casually.
He must have been twice her age. He was small for a man, only half an inch taller than she was, pasty-faced and plump. Even though the evening was cold and there was not a large fire in the drawing room, he oozed perspiration. He also reeked of some appalling scent which failed to overcome it.
Until now he had not ceased talking about himself and his concerns.
'I have, as you must know, for everyone's business is always known in small communities like ours, bought a small house a mile or so away,' he rather ponderously informed the company.
'Yes, the Lodge where old Mistress Graham lived,' Aunt Joan nodded. 'I often visited her there. It's a good solid stone house, with some commodious rooms.'
He nodded graciously. 'Too big for me, perhaps, but I like space around me. And I have old connections with the area.'
'Your grandparents, I believe, had a house here,' Uncle Colin stated. 'I am sure you will be an asset to our small community.'
'I will do my utmost,' Mr MacNeill said with a gracious bow towards her uncle. 'I aim to help, perhaps, with the school, and take part in Kirk affairs. I could be useful, I flatter myself, in the Sessions.'
'We must see to it that you are elected,' Uncle Colin said quickly, and Catriona suppressed a laugh. Uncle Colin was always complaining about how few people wanted to take on this onerous task of managing Kirk affairs. He would welcome anyone who showed such a keen interest.
Mr MacNeill had returned to his own affairs. 'I will have room for my notes, my collections,' he was saying. 'For you must know I mean to continue my great work there.'
Catriona pointedly refrained from asking what that was. She had no desire to know, nor to pander to the man's overweening vanity by pretending an interest. Unfortunately Aunt Joan seemed intent on flattering him.
'What work is that?' she asked eagerly. 'It is no doubt something scholarly.'
'Naturally, dear lady.'
No one else looked eager to hear about it, but they and Catriona soon learnt in excessive detail that his life's work was a definitive translation of the dramatic works of Greek classical authors.
'I hope, one day soon, to read a few scenes to you, my dear,' he told her as they seated themselves. 'Let me see, Antigone, by Sophocles, is an improving text, and quite suitable for a young lady.'
'Really?' Catriona asked, allowing her voice to develop a honeyed tone. 'My father once brought me some old books with translations of Greek plays. I preferred Aristophanes, especially Lysistrata. Have you translated that?'
She was gratified to see his complexion darken, and he choked on the wine he had just sipped.
'That – that is quite unsuitable for an unmarried girl, quite,' he stated when he recovered.
'Oh? It's about stopping the men going to war, isn't it? I thought women were supposed to be the peace-loving, gentle sex?'
He glared at her, and turned to talk to her aunt. Catriona smiled to herself mischievously. That would teach the appalling little man not to patronise her. Even if Aunt Joan had heard she wouldn't have understood. She hadn't approved of her father's attitude towards educating girls as well as boys, and Catriona was sure she would never even have heard of the play, let alone read it.
Catriona caught Betsy's glance across the table, and bit her lip. She desperately wanted to giggle, and knew her friend did too. They had read the play together, and wondered how many of their married acquaintances used the same technique of withdrawing their favours in order to gain what they wanted from their husbands. They would have fun the following day criticising him. If, that is, her mother were well enough to be left.
The thought sobered Catriona. Mary Duncan had rallied slightly during the past few days, but not sufficiently to rise from her bed. Unable to visit the bothy because of her promise to her aunt, and not in any event wishing to leave her mother, Catriona felt stifled. She had so little to do apart from wait on her mother, sitting with her while for most of the time she slept. The only thing she could do was read or draw. She couldn't concentrate enough to read, but she had filled a sketching pad with new patterns and designs for her dyeing. Every time she drew she thought of Rory Napier, wondering where he was and what he was doing. All the time she was hoping desperately that her mother would show some more signs of improvement, and most days being disappointed.
She endured the dinner, listening politely to Mr MacNeill, but the moment her aunt led the way from the dining room she ran upstairs to her mother's room.
'Look, Uncle Colin insisted I wear some of your jewellry,' Catriona said, taking off the locket and giving it to her mother. 'I thought you'd like to have it up here.'
Her mother's eyes filled with tears, but she smiled as she released the catch, and gently kissed her husband's portrait.
'Thank you, my love. Tell me about it,' she said, and Catriona was pleased to see a faint colour in her cheeks. 'Your aunt said she had invited a new neighbour.'
'Yes, the most unpleasant, ridiculous little man,' Catriona said, laughing. 'You would have been amused at his pretentious talk. I hope Uncle Colin was so bored with his tedious conversation he will not invite him again. I wish Thomas had been here. He'd have given him a set down.'
'Thomas, yes. I do want to see him, Cat. Next time he comes, you must promise to make him come and visit me, however much he detests sickrooms. Without your father it falls on me, and I need to get your future settled.'
*****
Rory was inspecting another batch of printed linen Joshua had brought in when there was a timid knock on the door.
'Come,' he called, not looking up until Joshua gave a discreet cough and touched his arm.
A petite girl, no more than seventeen years old, hesitated on the threshold, smiling timidly. She wore a gown of the finest apple-green brocade, the elbow-length sleeves finished with several lace ruffles. Green kid gloves matched the gown perfectly, a lace-edged chiffon shawl was draped across her immature bosom, and a bergère straw hat perched jauntily on her curls.
Rory passed a hand across his wig, which he knew was disordered after several hours of wrestling with his ledgers. He summoned up a welcoming smile and moved towards her.
She smiled nervously. 'Is it all right for me to come in? My father is visiting someone in the next building, and he suggested I came to see your new linen. It sounds so exciting.'
'Miss MacNab, come in. Can I offer you something to drink? Perhaps a fruit cordial?' Rory said, hoping he had some.
He led her to the chair beside his desk, and Susannah sank into it. 'Thank you, that would be most welcome. I've been driving round with Papa all day, and I'm exhausted. Bus
iness is so complicated, isn't it? I'll never understand anything about it.'
'I'll be going, Mr Napier,' Joshua said, easing himself out of the door.
Rory barely noticed, he was searching in a cupboard for the jug of fruit cordial that was placed there for him every day. Finding it still half full he sighed with relief. He didn't have a kettle or the other necessities for making tea, which he knew women preferred, and he could hardly offer her the whisky he kept for male visitors.
He poured it into two glasses and carried it over to her. She was inspecting the office with puzzled interest, looking at the huge ledgers where he kept his records of how much flax he bought, which amounts went out to the various spinners who worked in their cottages, what came back and was then sent to the weavers, and on to the bleaching fields in Holland or, only occasionally now since they were in such a poor state of repair, to his own here in Scotland.
Susannah sipped the fruit juice, then placed the glass carefully on the desk. 'Is that the new linen?' she asked, nodding towards the big table. 'May I look at it?'
'Of course. It's just this simple pattern to begin with, until the men get used to using the blocks. Two small flower shapes, you see, a bell shape and a rosette, the bell in a lilac shade for heather, the other blue for cornflowers, alternating.'
'I see.' She giggled. 'This one looks just like the shape of my new gown. Oh, Rory, I wish you could see it, it's of the most heavenly shade of blue, misty, like bluebells under the beech trees.' She leant closer to the fabric, her sleeve brushing his arm, and he moved away slightly. 'How clever!' Susannah inspected the material even more closely, and then pointed to one section. 'Isn't it meant to be straight?'
'What do you mean?' Rory asked, leaning close beside her to see where she was pointing.
'Here, you see. These flowers are all in a straight line, but this one seems to have slipped to the side. And this one. It makes it look rather odd when the fabric is stretched out flat. And look, there are two cornflowers next to one another. That wasn't what you said.'
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